


The Soul, On Its Knees

by gaslightgallows (hearts_blood)



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Angel/Demon Sex, Aziraphale's Bookshop (Good Omens), Blow Jobs, M/M, Oral Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Power Dynamics, Praise Kink, Soft Top Aziraphale (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-03
Updated: 2019-08-03
Packaged: 2020-07-29 20:20:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,218
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20088178
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hearts_blood/pseuds/gaslightgallows
Summary: Aziraphale wants something from Crowley, who is happy to oblige, as always.





	The Soul, On Its Knees

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt: "Please get on your knees." (Aziraphale/Crowley) (meldanya44)
> 
> If you're over on Tumblr, please consider following me at [gaslightgallows.tumblr.com](https://gaslightgallows.tumblr.com) for more fic, reblogs about writing, and lots of randomness.
> 
> I also write original fiction! You can find it at [aflinley.com](http://www.aflinley.com).
> 
> Thank you for reading and especially for commenting. Comments are love. ♥

In the bookshop of A.Z. Fell in London, Soho, an angel and a demon were drinking companionably. Actually, at that precise moment, each of them had a half-full glass in their hand, but neither was imbibing. The demon was sauntering around the shop’s center, talking and gesticulating and making sure that, miraculously, none of his wine sloshed out onto the books. The angel was sitting comfortable on a sofa. The hand holding the wine, and the arm it was attached to, were stretched out along the sofa’s back, and he was watching Crowley, and thinking. Testing the air, one might say. 

For an ethereal being, Aziraphale knew he possessed a rather embarrassingly large appetite for many earthly pleasures. There really was no reason for an angel of the Lord to desire quite so many things quite so often, copulation least of all.

But he did, and he’d resigned himself to it. Quite selfless of him, too, since there were always humans who needed some temporary companionship or a sympathetic and willing partner who would ask no questions and leave them with no other memories beyond a sensation of safety and relief.

Sometimes, though, he longed for something more intimate. 

Aziraphale finally came to a decision. “Crowley,” he interrupted. 

Crowley stopped in mid-saunter. “Hmm?”

“Would you mind doing something for me?”

“Sure, I’ve got nothing on this week. What’s the miracle?”

“Nothing like that.” Aziraphale took a sip from his glass, looked at Crowley steadily for a second or two, and then spoke gently, in a very particular soft tone. “Would you get on your knees for me, please?”

It was phrased as a question (he might have been reading the evening’s undercurrents wrong, after all), but Crowley received it as a command, and responded immediately. Aziraphale watched him pale and then flush, and a shiver rippled over Crowley's long lanky body as though he was shedding his skin. He finished off his drink and then crossed the floor to the sofa, sinking easily to his knees before Aziraphale with a hungry, reverent expression written over his whole face. Even the dark glasses couldn't hide how delighted he was that Aziraphale had asked, how eager he was to do this for him, whatever he wanted.

“Oh, good,” Aziraphale murmured, leaning forward to run his fingers through Crowley’s hair. “I hoped you'd be amenable tonight." 

“For you, when am I not?”

True enough, but Aziraphale hoped he never presumed. For all the ways they were alike, there were still plenty of ways in which they differed, and sex was one of them. 

Crowley slid his hands lightly over Aziraphale’s thighs, feeling the weave of the fabric and the plushness of the flesh underneath. “What's your pleasure, angel?”

Smiling, Aziraphale leaned forward and kissed him, slow and soft. “Your mouth, please, my dear.” Crowley’s teeth released his bottom lip reluctantly as he sat back. He lifted his glass to drink and gulped down a bit more than he'd intended when Crowley palmed him through his trousers. Aziraphale groaned in the back of his throat and pressed into Crowley's hand. 

"I suppose you want me to take these off the hard way," Crowley grumbled. 

"I'd prefer it, if you don't mind."

"Could just miracle them away."

"You _could_, but the last time you did that, I didn't find them again for a month, and I'm rather fond of these old things." Aziraphale refrained from mentioning that he'd finally rediscovered them lining the basket where the shop's sometime-resident snake liked to sleep, but it was on both of their minds. As evidenced by the demonic snigger now arising from the aforementioned snake. 

"Hard way it is, then." 

The intricacies of Aziraphale's clothing, a pale patterned amalgam of styles spanning three centuries, meant that 'the hard way' involved Crowley removing Aziraphale's coat ("Watch the wine, dear, that's a good fellow.") and waistcoat (button by button) and sliding his tartan braces off his shoulders (a process that took rather longer than it ought, but Crowley was still thinking about nibbling on Aziraphale's lips and Aziraphale was more than happy to let him be distracted for a little while), and only _then_ could Crowley actually do something about the trousers and whatever was underneath.

Aziraphale let out a soft sigh of relief as the increasingly restrictive layers of cloth were removed, and the warm air of the shop hit his skin. 

"Better, angel?"

"Oh, _much_ better, thank you." He cupped Crowley's cheek in his hand, stroking the corner of his mouth, not unlike the gentle strokes Crowley was currently giving him. The tip of Crowley's tongue darted out briefly, just flicking over the pad of Aziraphale's thumb, a preliminary taste. 

"Glasses on or off?"

He always asked, and Aziraphale always gave the same response: "Whatever you're comfortable with."

Crowley nodded, and pulled off the designer lenses, tossing them onto the cushion beside Aziraphale. He settled more comfortably between the pale plush thighs and bent forward, brushing his lips over the tip of Aziraphale's cock. 

Aziraphale let his head fall back, only briefly, savoring the first tentative overtures of soft lips and clever tongue and almost-too-sharp teeth, before Crowley engulfed him completely. It wasn't inaccurate, to call this an act of worship, and if it was blasphemous, well... then so be it. 

It certainly wasn't the worst thing they'd ever done together. Or the best, come to think of it. 

"Oh," he gasped, feeling lips coming to rest at the base of his cock, "oh, that's..." He gulped for air he didn't need, found it wanting, and gulped down wine instead. Hands slipped under his thighs and teeth grazed him lightly, making that unsatisfying breath hitch in his throat, and he realized he was sliding down the leather cushions in a most debauched way. Aziraphale gripped the back of the sofa and forced himself upright again. 

"Mmm..." He pushed his fingers into Crowley's hair, half-caressing and half-holding him in place, just where he needed him right now. Yellow eyes, predator's eyes, flashed up at him with a question. "Oh yes, my dear, you're doing marvelously."

Crowley's mouth stretched into a deeply indecent grin around Aziraphale's cock, and he did something with his tongue that made Aziraphale whimper with pleasure. "More?" he asked with his eyebrows.

"Yes, oh _yes_, Crowley, love, you're... good, good at this..." Aziraphale fisted his hair desperately. "Good, so good."

He was sliding again, sinking down closer to Crowley's exquisite mouth and exploring hands, and when Crowley pressed two slick fingers inside him, opening him, touching him, dragging him down and then up to heights he could never have reached on his own, he gave up pretending that wasn't precisely where he wanted and needed and had always needed to be.

When he came down, at last, they were both on the floor, with Aziraphale half-naked and thoroughly ravished and in Crowley's lap, and with Crowley's arms around him and his face buried into the curve of Aziraphale's throat.

"How'd I do?" he asked, his voice muffled by Aziraphale's collar, which was now, understandably, a little limp. 

Aziraphale laughed, breathlessly, and rubbed his cheek against Crowley's hair. "Good. Very, very good." 

He felt Crowley's delighted smile against the side of his neck, and was satisfied that he had done a good job, too.


End file.
